


Prisons of the Mind

by TheModernChromatic (orphan_account)



Series: Blame [2]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1930s, M/M, ereri, eruri - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-08
Updated: 2014-01-17
Packaged: 2018-01-03 23:55:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1074557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/TheModernChromatic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having turned himself over to the Boston police force out of guilt, Levi faces his sins, relives the war, and is forced to admit the falsehood behind all of the lies he'd been living. With the help of an intrusive old friend and several of his favorite pieces of literature, he lives out his new life in prison, helping the police break down the activities of rival gangs to pass the time, and wondering if he will ever be able to forgive himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stone Walls

**Author's Note:**

> OKAY. So this will probably be pretty short, 5-10 chapters at the most, but the chapters are longer, and a bit more content-heavy than TFG. I'll try to explain the literary references (I wouldn't recommend reading them unless you really want to; they're old and long and boring and hard to understand but I read them anyway) so hopefully no one gets too lost. My headcanon is that Levi reads just about everything he can get his hands on, so the references will be extensive and numerous.
> 
> Works referenced:  
> "Civil Disobedience" by Henry David Thoreau--1849, about Thoreau's time in prison (he was a trancendentalist who hated the US government)  
> "Inferno" by Dante Alighieri--13th century, Dante's description of hell (in 9 circles, the ninth being closest to Lucifer, the ultimate punisher, featuring a frozen lake at the center of the last two or three circles.)

He had no opinion on whether or not the room was comfortable. It was bare, and cold, mostly due to poor heating and the thick of winter, but that was his only opinion of the room. Cell. It was all the same to him, and the guards did nothing to make it more or less comfortable. As Thoreau wrote, "In every threat and in every compliment there was a blunder; for they thought that [his] chief desire was to stand the other side of that stone wall." Yes, to Levi, where he was mattered not to him. In walls or outside of them, real prison lies in the mind--on that he was sure Thoreau would agree, though the two were of rather different predicaments.

His speculation went that both he and Thoreau had gone willingly, but Thoreau was arrested rather where Levi had walked in a free man with his freedom as the last thing to his name. Everything else lost or given as premature inheritance, his freedom felt to be a possession he didn't deserve, so he surrendered it and contented himself in sitting lifelessly in the corner of his newest palace contemplating _Civil Disobedience_. He almost wished he had something to read, but the very wish itself didn't suit him. What did he deserve but to be treated like a criminal?

He continued to close in on himself, admiring Thoreau's almost-sunny view of his prison walls, as a wall happily placed between himself and the hypocrites that surrounded him. Levi thought this a decent idea, but took it further; his cell didn't not embrace him and keep him company as a warm fortress against what he wished to escape. No, it stood as a cold and cavernous institution in which he knew he would never escape what ailed him, and out of his own self-loathing, he had chosen to chain himself to it for the remainder of his life, be it in one icy cell or the next. But still, the ache for his books. And for snow. He would always ache for snow, but to see it, he knew, would destroy him.

The sound of shoes, less expensive than the ones he'd prefered before he'd imprisoned himself, sounded through the hall, disturbing his silent reflections on Thoreau. As he caught sight of who rounded the corner, he collapsed into himself, letting go of the provocative ideas of freedom suggested by his literary cellmate.

"They tell me you haven't eaten anything."

The voice was cool and calm, just like he remembered it, and in the dim lighting of the cell block, surrounded by cold, his skin pricked up in the shivers of a mass of unpleasant memories. From his corner, Levi lifted his head to acknowledge the speaker, let his eyes float to the tray of food that had been allowed to chill where they'd placed it, and then he drew up his knees about himself and let his head fall back against the wall, his vision waning as his eyes closed slowly.

"They hardly ever lie to me, unless they're trying to impress me. Yet, I was hoping when they told me your eyes were those of a dead man, they were for once. Our friendship may be expired, but to see you deteriorate this way is never something I wanted for you, despite the life you chose."

Lids still closed, Levi's eyes clenched for a brief moment and then relaxed. Part of him wondered if the silence was better, if he prefered the stranger Thoreau and his ideas over the old friend in front of him. Once more, he clenched his eyes and then, as he released, let his entire body relax, the rising and falling of his chest the only sign of life.

"Will you ever tell me why you're here? I suppose I mistook your earlier intrusion of my office as cockiness, but I missed the look in your eyes. They were right about that much." He took a moment to see if the mass of grey, striped black and white, would respond to his comments, but nothing happened. The eyelids the not flutter, nor did the upward-pointed face even flinch. It was too much like death to be sleep. "I expected you had some sort of trick up your sleeve. Part of me is still hoping for that."

A few footsteps sounded, like the man approaching the iron curtain between them, and stopped short of being able to touch the bars. Between the two of them was only empty, greying silence that chilled them both. Neither enjoyed it, but one welcomed it. A soft, surrendering sigh brushed the grey silence away.

"It does hurt me to see you this way. We were friends once, and after what you did for me ten years ago, there are few things I wouldn't do for you, even here and now. I only wish you would keep yourself alive. We both saw the men who died there while their bodies kept living. You look like them."

The footsteps started up again, and a thin hiss of escaping breath could be heard just underneath them, just enough to perk the ear. The commander's steps slowed as he listened, able to make out just a ghost of a whisper.

"That's fair, then. A life for a life."

The man paused and a sad smile surfaced from under his worry and anticipation. Forward-facing, going back was not on his mind; he knew his old friend too well to be comforted by words and his presence only presented a hindrance to the healing he knew would have to take place.

"I see. If you can think of something you'd prefer over what our talented chefs cook up, please bend my ear. Lord knows the last time you ate before you showed up in my office, and your case is far from closed, so don't think you're going anywhere any time soon."

The tone of his voice was teasing and lighthearted because he understood. From his place, rooted to the concrete floor of his jailhouse, he could feel the emptiness overflowing from his comrade, spilling off of him like shadow and creeping across the floor. He did not need to turn around to see the little figure, motionless as stone still frozen in the position he'd drawn himself into as soon as the commander had disturbed his solitary mourning. He let the silence hang there for a moment and let the emptiness around his toes touch him lightly. For that moment, the two were like statues, drained of everything, each recalling a war unique to themselves. The commander shook himself off and began walking again.

"Please try to eat, Levi. It's been three days."

As he exited his jailhouse, Erwin thought his old friend a soldier again, deep in the trenches where ghosts of men and dreams still battled. Many of his own dreams had placed him there. He often felt his soul was still anchored there, and the ghost of his arm still held a gun pointed at the head of someone's son, brother, husband, uncle, or father--all without remorse. The ghost arm with its ghost gun was free to pull the trigger on those ghosts there as much as it pleased. Sometimes he felt his soul still attached to his sacrifice. At the very least, he hoped his arm, lost to the world of cold tragedy and surrounded by death, would be of some assistance to Levi as he relived the trenches. The Great War, or a war of his own, Erwin knew where his friend's mind lurked, and he uttered a quick prayer for his soul.

Dusk came, and then dawn, all at once. The light streaming in from the barred window high above Levi's head did not seem to change anymore than his position did. He thought of how moving would feel after so long, like a golem summoning the will to migrate after eons of slumber. Moss had gathered at his elbows, his fingers and toes, and time had eroded his joints to nothingness. Every hour in which he did not move seemed a thousand years of still torture. At first his limbs had tingled, like the static of a radio breaking through the silence. Then, they had ached until he nearly moved, but no--that would defeat the purpose. As the light streaming in over his upturned nose waxed with the rising sun, his limbs were numb from hours of disuse, his mind exhausted from overuse.

Somewhere in the middle of his morning reverie, footsteps sounded, but they were not of Erwin's classy, confident gait. They were not the footsteps of a man trying to fix the world around him. Levi need not break his careful concentration to know the owner of the footsteps had no care in his mind for him. He could smell that they'd brought more food, but he didn't care to know what it was. They would see the last tray, cold and neglected, nearly as motionless as he was, and replace it with a new one. It had been so for three days, going on to a fourth. Levi could count every second. He could almost speak for the guards every time they came in with food, declaring the cold trays as wastes and a lack of gratefulness.

"Breakfast is here." The voice was young and male, bored, bordering on annoyance. Levi's eyes opened like slits and he leapt out of his skin at what he saw.

His stationary meditation crashed to a halt as he vaulted forward, tumbling over himself to the edge of his bed. His body ached so much his vision blurred, and for another second, the mirage held. But as his head adapted to the skewed position, the boy who came in sight was too tall and too lanky, with hair too light and a face too long. It was laughable that he'd ever made the mistake in the first place. From his new position, he groaned at his new agony and the temporary heat that had possessed him left at once, making his limbs leaden and cold once more.

 _Not him._ His mind curled around the thought as his breath left his body in a defeated hiss. Of course it wasn't him. In his throat he felt his blood pumping hard and hot, too hot for his frozen heart, and too fast for his stony body. He wondered if it would simply burst through his papery skin, a final pump of hot red blood pooling around him and his eyes floated shut. They tore open after the split second it took for a visage of a pool of blood that was not his to surface. He wheezed and thought again of books and snow.

The boy, from where he stood aback from the cell, carefully regained himself, surprised at the 'corpse' prisoner's sudden outburst. With a surgeon's precision, he removed the old tray and placed the new one where the first had been, careful to deliver the commander's deliberate instructions.

"You're to eat today. Commander's orders. He'll be by at noon to question you." And the young officer left with haste, still gathering himself.

From his contorted position at the foot of his new bed, Levi frowned deeply. It was just like his old friend to issue orders to men he had no power over. He was not at war, and his prison was not a trench. His orders meant nothing in his cold solitude. His meditative pose disrupted, Levi found his bladder had remembered its true purpose and he was forced to move again. The blood flowing through his limbs felt wrong, like he was burning from the inside. For the life of him, he couldn't understand why he was so warm. Nothing felt right.

When Erwin came at noon, he was face-up again, but on his back, splayed out on the bed. The sheets under his heels were rough, but not uncomfortable. The jumpsuit took most of the impact from the sheets, so under his upturned hands and beneath his heels were the only places he felt the thick fabric. The fabric's history was of no concern to him anymore; whether or not it was clean was beyond him. Contrary to his earlier immobility, he squirmed often, his body too hot to stay still.

"Levi."

He waited for the voice to go on, but it did not.

"My blood feels hot." He felt himself mutter this and then closed his eyes and smiled. He could picture the gears turning in Erwin's head, his heroic and sickly-beautiful features twisting into a face of confusion. But the reply came quickly.

"You haven't eaten. You'd feel better if you ate. The guards tell me you didn't move until this morning. You didn't sleep; I can tell."

Levi pulled himself into a slouched sitting position, his legs dangling over the edge of his bed. His eyes darted toward the tray placed hastily on the tiny wooden table which was carefully bolted to the ground, like everything else in the room--save the tray. He padded accross the room, his bare feet slapping the cold ground aimlessly, and returned to his bed with a cold roll of bread, the only thing he had deemed edible. The feeling of Erwin's eyes on him as he held the roll delicately in both hands and brought it to his mouth sickened him. He took a few careful bites and chewed tentatively, debating on whether or not to swallow. In the end, he did.

"There now. You'll be feeling better. I tried to get the heat working in here, but this is an old building, and it isn't quite built for it. I could bring a radiator if you'd like."

"My blood feels hot." He repeated. The roll was gone.

"Why." Erwin sounded too annoyed to force his tone upwards enough for it to be a question. Naturally, Levi mused, having seen one thing go his way, he expected to see everything fall into place, but it wasn't doing so. It never would.

"It shouldn't be flowing. I should be in the ground. I want it to be cold."

Erwin hummed dismissively. "You should give my arm great company. So guilt has brought you to me? Is that it? We've come full-circle then."

"You mistake gratefulness for guilt. You never felt guilt." Levi felt himself easily parrying the man's accusations. He felt like talking. All he had been doing for days was thinking and wondering how long one would have to stay put to simply die. A responsive sigh redirected his attention.

"In that, you're right. I never felt guilty because of it. Remorseful, as any man without his right arm ought to be, and grateful, as a man who had traded that arm for his life naturally would. But do not think yourself isolated from me, hear? I know death and guilt to be good friends."

"Tch." Levi seated himself on the cold ground just in front of the bars, cross-legged, enjoying the chill that ran through his body. "If they are your good friends, then they are my parents. I owe everything I am to them." The sneer on his face came naturally, and he didn't try to hide the biting sarcasm.

A moment passed between them. No words came, until finally Erwin seated himself at the table positioned against the wall outside his cell. No adjacent cells were occupied. Being at the end of the hallway was no accident either. In the block, it was nothing but quiet.

"Is this because of the shooting in October?"

Levi, whose eyes had been fixed on the cold ground, slowly lifted his eyes to Erwin's face and let them drift shut, bringing his palms to their sockets and rubbing intently.

"I read about her death in the papers. I'm very sorry for your loss."

"I will miss her smile. But not to the extent of imprisoning myself." He drew his knees up around himself so that the bones in his behind dug into the ground. The balls of his feet still rested on the cold ground, his toes digging in as if holding on.

"You lost me." Erwin had tried to remain relaxed in his chair, but unable to hear Levi's hoarse whispers, he found himself leaning forward more and more.

Levi made no sound, rolling aimlessly onto his back so that he was sprawled out on the cold floor. His entire body felt the chill, and for a moment he thought he was as cold as he had been two weeks ago, collapsed in the snow outside of the hospital. But he knew such a chill would never happen to him again; that would require some element of warmth to be present. To have gone from such a warmth to the coldest pits of the ninth circle, was where the true chill originated from. He pictured himself alongside the fraudulent sinners, his body deep inside the ice next to Lucifer. He pressed himself into the ground and thanked Dante for the image.

"You'll need to answer my questions eventually. They've got facilities for men like you, and you're likely to end up there unless they've got reason to keep you here. As it is, I've been pulling strings keeping you here. Big Levi. Every criminal facility in the country has been trying to get their hands on you for a decade and you waltzed right into my office and handed yourself over. If you think you'll get even half the time to mope around you're getting here anywhere else, you're wrong."

In his cell, he sighed and rolled onto his stomach, feeling it churn emptily against the cold floor. Erwin was using his commander voice again, trying to spur some sort of reaction out of him. It only made him want to sleep. But he had no desire for sleep, because it would bring dreams, and every dream was a nightmare even Dante couldn't think up. Pressing one cheek to the concrete, he could feel his pain shaping itself into bitterness, and he wanted nothing more than for Erwin to leave.

"You loved me." His voice seemed to echo across the cold floor. A pleasing silence answered it.

"I did." Erwin responded after some time. "But you chose your path and I chose mine." He touched the end of his missing arm subconsciously. "Are you going to answer my questions or not?"

"Did it hurt when I betrayed you?"

A heavy sigh answered him. "I'll just come back later then. I've got more work to do than here and I'm not going to waste my time."

The sound of his chair scraping across the floor echoed through the hallway and Levi smirked at his victory. The sound of paper crinkling on the table in his cell followed.

"There's lunch. Try to eat it." And the footsteps started up, only to stop again shortly. "Yes, Levi. It hurt." And then they carried on until they could be heard no more.

Levi flipped over and craned his neck to look over at the table where his food was set. A neatly-wrapped sandwich sat alone where the tray had been, its only companion a glass of water. Both mind and stomach rejected the very thought of it, so he crawled over to his bed and lay on his side, staring at the empty chair outside his cell.

"Remember that pain," he whispered to the chair. "When you do, you might reach the first circle. But you've got eight more before you get anywhere close to me."


	2. Telltale Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mikasa kinda comes in a wrecks shit (but can you blame her?) and BAM! flashback. I don't even know whose perspective I'm writing from anymore.  
> If you end up reading any of the things I reference at any point, White Fang is #1 on the recommendation list.  
> -screams about radiators and symbolism-
> 
> EEEP. I reallyreallyreally love writing this okay bye guys, love you. <3  
> News about updates can be found on my tumblr http://themodernchromatic.tumblr.com/   
> ~Cass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Works referenced:  
> "The Tell-Tale Heart" by Edgar Allen Poe: 1843, short story about a man who commits a murder and buries the body under the floorboards in his house and hears the heart thumping while the police interrogate him (spoiler alert) causing him to go crazy and confess.  
> "White Fang" by Jack London: 1906, novel about a part-wolf, part-dog mutt forced into dogfights by a cruel master and is later saved by John Thornton, whom he dubs 'love master'.  
> Tantalus, for those who don't know, was a sinner in Greek mythology punished in the underworld. Constantly dehydrated and starving, up to his neck in fresh water with apples right above his head, Tantalus could neither bend his head to drink the water or reach up and grab an apple.

He pondered the definition of sleep. He'd been motionless on his side for hours, cocooned in a scratchy fleece blanket with his face to the wall. Sometimes his eyes were closed, sometimes not. In the dark of his cell, it did not matter. On the table outside, a small lamp had been placed for the guards who came in every hour or so just to check on him, on Erwin's orders, he was sure. But even if the lamp were brighter, the light would never reach him. The longer he left his eyes closed, the more his mind could wander. He knew he mustn't sleep.

Somewhere past the rough fleece and lumpy cot, was his own bed, of a size laughable for a man as small as himself. He could feel the soft white sheets against his skin, the mattress eager to embrace him. Underneath a mountain of blankets, only his nose stuck out, his limbs pinned tightly to his body. He knew in the back of his mind if he reached out only just a little, another beacon of warmth would be at his fingertips. He shifted uncomfortably, vaguely aware of his bladder.

In one quick swing, he was completely out in the open, every inch of bare skin met by the cold. More quick motions involved jumping into nightclothes and shivering violently to and from the bathroom to get his blood pumping. At the back of his neck, seated on the edge of his bed while he pulled on socks, he could feel a creeping sensation, and dread filled his limbs. He spun around all at once and was filled with relief. It was exactly as he remembered, the bare little figure looking smaller than he was, huddled under a discarded shirt, but not quite covered.

Even with the socks, his feet were cold as he stood at the other end of his bed, quietly watching the sweet little face as its sleeping features twitched occasionally in a dream. When the sleeper shivered, his muscles seemed to move on their own, lifting the bare, warm body to free the blankets and then pulling them over him, hoping silently that the remains of his own body heat were there as compensation. One hand came to rest on a warm cheek of the sleeping figure, the thumb rubbing idly over the smooth skin.

He moved only when he felt himself shiver, hoisting himself up to sit on the edge of the bed with one knee. His hand sought out its earlier location, but instead of his thumb, the backs of his fingers caressed the soft cheek. When he could stand the cold air no longer, he leaned in and placed two kisses on the sleeping face: one in the tracks of his fingertips on the round little cheek, and the other just above the brow, where the forehead met the temple. Then he crawled carefully over the sleeping figure and under the blankets, his arms eager to wrap around the bare skin. As he did so, his fingers pressed into the sleeper's ribs and his mind registered a wet sensation. His head spun as they probed on their own, dipping into a hole overflowing with the increasingly less-mysterious liquid.

"Hey, you. Get up."

He didn't need to be told twice, awakened by both the gruff, female voice, and the pounding of his own heart as he shot into a sitting position, undoing all of the careful wrappings of his blankets in a single motion. Shaking, he brought his hands in front of his face in the dim light of his cell and saw that they were cold, dry, and clean. He cursed himself for falling asleep and plunged his face into the clean and shaking hands as his eyes began to water. No, he had not meant to fall asleep.

"He worked for you, didn't he." An accusation, rather than a question.

He was not up to answering to either. Against his face, his hands still shook, heart still pounded. Nothing in him wanted to pull his hands away to see the face he knew he would find outlined by the dim light of the lamp.

Silence ensued while he composed himself.

"Who told you?" His voice was broken and hoarse. His mind drifted over to the glass of water he hadn't touched.

"I figured it out. He told me he was on guard duty for someone, but he never mentioned specifics. You're hard-pressed tryin' to make an honest living in these times, and his pay was rather generous to support all three of us. There's only a few things he was ever ashamed of. And in the morning, the kid who brought your breakfast told me he thought he heard you use his name." Her tone soured. "Does it hurt you to look at our uniforms?"

He wasn't looking. He didn't have to answer that question to anyone. Before strolling into the station to surrender himself, the last time he'd seen that uniform was one he didn't want to remember. Same for the girl's face. Both were buried deep in memory as well as in the cold ground.

"Why the hell're you here?" Her voice cracked like a whip.

"All ask and none know." He managed to take his hands from his face. "Have you come here to tell me how much you hate me? If you're trying to find where to place the blame, look no further." His own tone fell venomous and sour, though it was not directed at her.

"I want to know why you didn't just run off. The hell was it that made you limp in here and surrender?"

And then he knew. In that question, he knew everything she didn't know. A pit developed in his empty stomach as he realized what her accusations really were. She thought him a murderer, because she knew nothing.

"No one told you," he whispered, finally able to look up to her face. It was hard and hateful, but slowly contorted into confusion. "You don't know what happened, do you?" His head swam in circles as his own voice seemed to echo in his ears.

"You killed him. Eren. My brother. You shot him," she hissed.

His lips let free a string of overlapping 'no's, his head still spinning. His stomach began to turn with it. He let his eyes close and his hands came to his face again, pressing into his skin so that they might smother the endless stream of babble. As if beneath the thick concrete, his heart pounded in his ears, making his head ache. He cursed Poe and willed the pounding to stop. When he let go of his face, he wasn't sure if the hot tears had stayed in his eyes or if they had managed to make their way down his face.

"I shot him. Shot him. Me?" His voice broke. More pounding from the floor. He drew a shaking breath and mashed his palms into his eyes. "No. Not me. But it's my fault. Mine. It was meant for me. It should've been me. He stepped in the way!" His voice came from nothingness and grew into a shout.

Between them, a pregnant silence formed. His face remained in his hands and he stayed motionlessly on his cot, suppressing silent sobs as they racked his body. She had gotten to her feet, her hands balled into fists at her side.

"You killed him, you bastard!" Something in her seemed to break and she was shouting too. Neither one of them had noticed the hurried footsteps drawn in by the shouting, so when she felt a hand on her shoulder, she swung out blindly but her target moved swiftly out of her way.

"You are relieved of your duty here. Come back tomorrow. Guarding prisoners is beneath your abilities." The voice was cool and firm.

She opened her mouth to protest, but underneath the heavy brow were reprimanding eyes, and she turned on her heel and left. The sound of a choked sob could be heard from the end of the hallway when she reached it.

"It always feels different when you have to face someone involved, doesn't it?"

Silence.

"Levi?"

The voice was miles above his head, completely unable to reach him. He had curled in on himself, his knees tightly to his chest as he drew heavy breaths laden with grief. The pounding from beneath the floor, in his ears, had quieted to soft thuds.

"Do you remember when we returned from the war and one of the wives of the men I was commanding was on the dock waiting for us? She couldn't find her husband, but she recognized me. Do you remember how she didn't believe me when I told her? And then she blamed me. Said I should have protected him because I was his commander. My arm was still in bandages, and she pushed me, saying it was all my fault. Do you remember what you did?"

A shudder passed over the surface of his skin. He remembered.

"You told her how brave he was, how he had done everything for his country and that we would never forget him or what he did. And she broke down and started crying in your arms."

His body had stilled. The harsh dream and harsher words still sat under his skin like a layer of ice. Part of him felt he deserved it, all of it. But a tiny memory of a morning on the dock of a bay filled with shining, hopeful faces made his chest tight. The pounding was gone.

"I still don't know what happened, but I refuse to believe it was your doing. You should try to get some sleep."

"I can't sleep." He let go of his knees and pushed himself against the wall, holding his arms to his chest. "I'll dream."

Erwin seated himself in the chair and let out a breath loudly enough for Levi to look up and watch him. Even in the scant light, he could see the pleasant features shaped with concern. He watched him adjust himself to the chair, trying to sit so that his back rested against the desk where he could not prop himself up with his missing elbow.

"John Thornton," Levi muttered quietly, feeling his muscles relax as he watched Erwin.

"Beg your pardon?"

"The rescuer. The love master. The one who does not force his dog to fight, no matter the money. Now should I be grateful? From one master to the next, at least you won't beat me."

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."

"Jack London. White Fang."

"Ah. So you still read."

~

He didn't feel unwelcome. His stay was purely accidental; he didn't want to go home, but he couldn't even see himself finding work and being able to afford a place of his own. Who in their right mind would hire a man with one arm? He couldn't go home to the family he'd left, parents and siblings who thought him a hero when he'd failed when his unit had needed him most. Yet, he did not feel guilty for what he'd done. All of the feelings where the guilt should've been were wrong--admiration, gratitude, relief. The war was over and he had his life along with more loyalty than he could've ever asked for. It seemed to him very few could count themselves so lucky. Levi, the soldier who had saved him in more ways than one, was kind enough to take him in. The two shared a bedroom, despite the fact that Levi's house was a mansion.

Levi often spent his days pouring over books. Erwin spent his pouring over Levi. What had happened between them during the war went unmentioned, and every night when they went to bed, Erwin shut off the lights in a different room and then silently crept over to the only one that mattered to him. For the most part, that went unmentioned too.

Erwin had met her on several occasions, a pretty little thing with dark hair and eyes to match and rich gold skin, quite the contrast to Levi's pale 'sister' and her father as far as Italians went, but beautiful nonetheless. Her English wasn't particularly good--Levi told him she had come straight from Italy with her family, but he thought her name to be Giovanna. She was pleasant and spirited, but he knew the extent of Levi's love for her. She was no more to him than his sister, Petra. It was on a late night, while he was reading, that Erwin confronted him about it.

"I don't suppose you love her very much." He was leaning idly against the desk, just watching the pages turn.

"On that account you would be quite wrong." The reply had been dismissive, completely without looking up.

"So you're going to marry her and have a perfect little family, huh?" That earned him at least an annoyed glance upwards.

"The war has made you bitter." He sighed and turned another page. "I intend to do what is expected of me in my brother's stead."

Erwin scoffed at that. "As if he was actually your brother. You could walk away from this, you know."

That had convinced him that he would be able to get no constructive reading done and he finally put the book down. It sat on the desk between him and his dear intruder. For a moment, he allowed a silent pause, knowing he would wait for his response. He wanted to disarm everything Erwin had pointed against him, and made an attempt with a solid glare.

"They are the only family I've ever known aside from my mother." He knew he had to say something, or Erwin would release another spew of annoying accusations. Then, "if this is about your jealousy and you're asking me to pick sides, she knows."

At that, Erwin had furrowed his brow deeply and moved forward in protest all at once, only to be stopped by Levi's hand at his chest.

"She figured it out. I wasn't going to lie to her. She knows our marriage is a political arrangement. Eventually, you'll get back on your feet and things will go back to normal." He'd reclined in his chair, the fabric of his trousers wrinkling around his knee as he propped his ankle on the one opposite it, his arms behind his head.

"So, that's to say you love her more than me?" Both men wore identically unreadable faces.

"Who said I love you? The two feelings are too different to compare."

"So you're not picking sides?" He leaned forward.

"Not at all. In fact, I'd rather get back to my book if you don't mind."

He moved for the book, but his earlier mistake had been placing it on Erwin's good side and he slid it out of reach, prompting Levi out of his chair to reach for it. Erwin quickly moved into the open chair and pushed himself into the relaxed position Levi had been in before him, save his arm, which he used to prop his chin up while he sported a smug expression.

"Get up. The best lighting is there."

"If you have room for me and her, the chair certainly has room for me and you."

Levi gave him a dismayed look and cracked his book open on the desk, contending to read while standing. A thick arm wrapped around his waist and he allowed himself to be pulled backwards, taking his book with him. He took no notice of the nose that nuzzled into his shoulder as he turned the pages idly, the arm still tight around his midsection. When the nuzzling moved north of his shoulder and he found hot breath in his ear, the pinpricks at his skin told him he wouldn't be getting any more reading done and he closed his book for the night.

~

The silence could've resembled something comfortable. Seeing that Levi had returned to his docile, death-like state, Erwin had finally gone home for the night. Before the silence, the soft tenor of Erwin's voice had filled the empty chamber until Levi had actually fallen asleep, thinking of their days after the war. When he woke, there was no dream that he could remember, and he was filled with both relief and terror all at once.

Motionless again, he watched the light grow from the window high above his head and he blinked his eyes experimentally, wondering where his exhaustion had gone in just a few minutes of sleep. The silence sat around him like an unwelcome warmth. He supposed it was an hour or so before anyone would come with food and sat numbly on the edge of his bed, the air around him too hot for blankets. He observed that the silence wasn't quite silence, but included a soft humming sound and his eyes came to focus on a glowing radiator set alongside the desk outside his cell. Looking at it inspired his only desire to escape the cell, if but to turn it off.

He sat on his knees at the edge of the cell carefully staring at it and wondering if his arm was long enough to reach its fuel source. His arm seemed to stretch out for miles, blindly as he pressed his shoulder into the gap between the bars in an attempt to reach the source of the heat. He could feel it, immense and unwavering just out of reach, and he stretched further. In the back of his mind, he felt he bore a semblance to Tantalus, doomed to thirst and hunger with nourishment just out of reach. His line of sight was directed at neither his hand nor outside of his cell at all for how far he was stretching, and the soft hum of the radiator covered the approaching footsteps.

"The hell're you doing?"

Startled, Levi made to pull back, but not before he jolted forward, forcing his hand into the hot coils of the metal. He withdrew instantly, cradling his hand. It hadn't been hot enough to sufficiently burn him, he saw upon examination, but the reddening flesh and shock had done enough damage. From his knees, he watched the exchange of trays over his head.

"Could you turn it off?" His gaze seemed to make the boy recoil slightly, but he nodded.

"Don't see why not. 'S a waste of oil anyways."

Levi continued to eye him in such a manner that the boy did not move after he shut off the radiator.

"You're an officer?"

"I am."

Even with the bars between them, he seemed uncomfortable. Levi wanted to laugh at his own notoriety, scaring little cops as they brought him breakfast.

"How old are you?"

"'Bout to turn twenty."

Levi allowed for a pause in which he closed his eyes and breathed. He tried to keep the thoughts at bay, but they came at him like kamikaze pilots, each one crash-landing where it hurt most. Eren. He'd never even asked him about his birthday. How long until he was to turn twenty? How many days short of two decades was he when he threw himself in the way of a criminal doomed to a long life? How many years had he stolen from him?

He thought of his hand as it stung and wished for snow and books. When he opened his eyes, the young officer was still there. His eyes passed over the uniform with practiced blindness.

"Did you know him?"

"Who, Eren?"

The name stung. He took a deep breath that resembled too much of a sigh and nodded.

"Sure I did, but he hated my guts. Shame what happened to him though."

"What's your name, kid?"

"Jean."

Levi chewed on it thoughtfully, a rich and familiar French name. For a second, he considered speaking in French to him, but the visage of an all-American cop before him told him he probably wouldn't be understood. He gave the name its full pronunciation nonetheless.

"Jean. Do something for me, Jean. Fetch your commander. Tell him I'm ready to talk about some things." The boy straightened visibly, looking ready to salute. The familiarity of the mannerism gave Levi a dull ache that seemed to settle into his bones. Thinking his mission clear, he had turned to head down the long hallway before he heard Levi's voice again.

"And tell him I want books."


	3. Doomed Kings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the bookworms talk about books. 
> 
> Works referenced:  
> Milton's Paradise Lost--1668, one of the few I haven't read fully, but it covers Lucifer being cast from heaven and ruling over hell (he's a doomed king in his own right)  
> Shakespeare's Hamlet--1604, about the doomed prince of Denmark, a revenge tragedy. The original line is "Methinks the lady doth protest too much." (meant to be ironic because the queen showed little to no remorse over her husband's death) and another line "Seems, madame? Nay, I know not seems."  
> Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter--1850, in the end when (spoilers) Dimmesdale dies, he is revealed to have a red, rash-like cluster in the shape of an A (like the one Hester wore) on his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> News and updates can be found on my [tumblr](http://themodernchromatic.tumblr.com/) (look I remembered how html works!)
> 
> ~Cass

Just how many days had he stolen? None could answer the question he dare not ask, no matter how badly he wanted to know the answer. There was no moving past it, not in the slightest. Only regret, manifesting itself in everything his mind lingered on. Sometimes he wondered if it were trying to consume him--showing up in everything, everywhere--or if that meant that it already had. Either way, he could only find solace in two things. Snow. Books. And of both things, he could not place why snow brought respite.

The very thought of it was sickly warming, a beautiful white battalion of stars, fallen from the sky just floating aimlessly to the ground. The whisps of a thousand souls. He could dream up the pathways to their destinations, always completely without purpose. The way they settled on everything daintily, like cold little kisses until they melted away. He could no longer picture any other kind of snow but the kind that floats gracefully from the clouds. It was the most innocent kind, and he knew what it should mean to him--the coldest kisses of death, the grave that had embraced him Christmas morning, the unwelcome friend that had accompanied him out of the funeral!--but it meant no such things. Only warmth, inexplicably, warmth.

He thought perspective strange--one day snow is a nuisance in every form, and the next it exists as one innocent, warming one. Same for his interpretation of his readings. Among his demands was Milton's Paradise Lost, with a particular quote he'd always taken to heart--"Tis better to rule in hell than to serve in heaven." This he had said to Erwin the day he severed their ties for what he'd thought to be for good. Then it had meant that he preferred being king of his corrupted kingdom over being the all-American soldier gone police officer, in Erwin's case. In the walls of his cell, it meant something else entirely.

There, he was the king of nothing. If he ruled, he ruled one thing, and admitting he ruled it, meant admitting defeat. He could govern the guilt with books and snow, but he was no supreme ruler. Yet it was better still than serving it in the free world. For a moment, he wondered if he'd imprisoned himself somehow knowing his suffering's amplification in the outside world. Its containment seemed to be key.

Theorize as he might, it could never stop him from falling asleep into the world where snow and books could not be summoned at will, where the rational containment was gone.

"I'm sorry I missed your birthday."

The walls were white, bare, and identical floor to ceiling, wall to wall to wall. The only difference was the single wall that existed as solid glass. Behind it stood an identical room, with its own prisoner, but unlike Levi, this one seemed free to leave at will. For Levi, there was not so much as a window, let alone a door. His fingers found the cold glass, incredulous at the source of the voice.

"You..."

A tiny smile.

"I wish I could've been there."

"I'm sorry! No! It's all my fault, please just--" He forgot what he wanted to beg for.

"You were never at fault."

Those words seemed to make him smaller in his room, the figment remaining massive and unnerving. Something knew something was wrong but it didn't fully register.

"I am. I am!"

"You're thirty now. Happy birthday!"

Another smile. Genuine.

"How many days was it?" He erupted as he continued to shrink, his voice becoming more and more insignificant. "How many? How many? How many did I steal from you! How--"

He woke with the word 'how' on his lips. His immediate reaction was to look around for confirmation that he was back in his contained cell. His eyes darted from the half-eaten food cold on his desk to the revolting toilet, then down to himself where his hands shook almost habitually as they took in the scratchy wool blankets covering him.

"Nightmares?" Erwin was there, giving him an almost scientific look. He was here for business.

"Don't let my sleep schedule inconvenience you. You're here for something." Levi tried to discreetly grasp his chest to still his fluttering heart. "Next time, just wake me." When he didn't respond, Levi gave him a hard look. "Out with it."

"You know a lot of things we don't. It's in everyone's best interest if you cooperate."

"Cut the shit. I know what you want me to do. Ask your damned questions."

Erwin continued to look at him with disinterest on any personal level. Levi had never seen him interrogate anyone, but he knew the act. And he knew Erwin well enough to know what he was doing, and he wasn't about to play into that hand. His blood was too cold to play Ring Around the Rosy all day. The more silence Erwin allowed, the deeper Levi's sneer grew.

"Let's start with the bootleg activities."

"I know of several operations across the surrounding cities. Who's your target?"

"Levi. This is about you." Erwin tried giving him a hard look.

"I will not be incriminating my own men. You want other gangs? My rivals? My allies--loyal or not? Fine. But like hell I'll out my kin first."

Erwin's scientific gaze settled on Levi's unyielding expression and resigned. The thrill of watching his facade melt away was immensely satisfying.

"Fine. The others first."

He knew how to play his cards best. He could take a week per gang, prolong his isolation for as long as possible. The first, he knew could take two weeks. Not allies, not even friends. Their crimes were numerous and he'd kept a careful eye on them thanks to Hanji. He gave him names, addresses, crimes--everything. Names were his business, after all. Within a few hours, Erwin was gone, but with him went the haunting feeling he'd woken up with. In return for his cooperation, he was granted a copy of Hamlet, which he was still reading when the night guard came in.

He was content to ignore him, like most guards. They tended to stay only a minute or two before setting off to patrol the ward a few times, their footsteps echoing throughout the halls before they got bored enough to abandon their posts. They were zookeepers in their own rights, but the creatures they kept were of natures far less foreign to them, so their jobs were inherently boring with the subjects well-contained. This one, however, took a seat calmly in the chair by the desk outside his cell, watching him read in the dim light of the evening.

"Methinks the prisoner doth protest too much."

At that, Levi set down his book momentarily, his fingers still in its pages. Hamlet was something he'd read many times over, so the line was nothing new to him, but its alteration by the boy was curious. He narrowed his eyes as he gave his reply.

"It seems you're well-read."

"Seems, sir? Nay, I know not seems."

Levi felt himself grin. He'd taken the bait perfectly. He folded the corner of the page carefully and set the book down.

"I assume you have business with me?" He waited patiently while the little blond seemed to gather himself.

"I...I knew him, you know."

That again. The matter had caught him off-guard, but he tried to steady himself. The boy looked about the same age, so it went well to say that many of the young officers would've known him. But did they talk of the prized prisoner's ties with him? Did they call him corrupt in his grave for doing what he did, against the law?

"I see." His face solidified, guarded. Silence stood between them. "Are you here to offer your invective, as she did?"

"N-no. Mikasa, did she really...?" He looked deeply concerned. "I want to thank you. If you hadn't paid for my surgery, I would've died."

"Don't thank me like I'm your daddy." He could feel his sardonic tone seeping into his bloodstream. The words wouldn't stop coming, and though the boy had meant no ill-will, he'd been a trigger. "He was saving up for it on his own. A few more days and he would've had it, he told me. Do you want to hear something sick? That was my way of apologizing to him. He found out about my true identity and he was disgusted, so I arranged for my assistant to set up everything so that you could go into surgery as my apology to him. I was going to take him to the hospital in the morning to see you." He took a moment to let the disgust settle in for both of them. "I took him there, but I let someone put a hole in him first."

He felt the heat of tears on the side of his face and wrenched his eyes shut. His mouth was still turned downwards in his repulsed scowl. What he heard was not what he'd been expecting.

"So you were the one." The reply was soft and quiet, pensive. "He talked about someone--a man--that he'd taken an interest in, 

but he didn't tell me much. Not that it was his boss, or that you felt the same."

Levi drew his knees up around himself again. He was still crying silently.

"I'm very sorry. He must've meant a lot to you."

"I should've just let him go." He took a deep breath and grit his teeth. "But no. I used you for that too, said he had to come back or you'd never make it. And look what it got him. Look what I did!"

Armin was quiet for awhile. Levi had managed to remember his name from the conversations he'd buried deep with the boy in the casket. He remembered how he'd asked if Armin were his son, and the girl his wife, even though he knew the answer without asking.

"I don't think you should blame yourself." He wasn't quite looking at him, but rather past him, beyond him, at something Levi couldn't see or simply refused to.

"And why shouldn't I? If I deny it, the day they ask me to testify, I'll fall over dead with a red 'm' on my chest."

"M for murderer?"

Levi gave no response, but sneered. He said it to himself, over and over, day and night, but hearing it from someone who clearly didn't believe it--the only one, perhaps--made it feel like a dirty word.

"Are you familiar with the works of Emily Bronte?"

Levi looked up with an expression that answered the question without words.

"In a bit of time, I'll come back with one of her poems. 'Remembrance,' it's called, have you read it?"

He shook his head.

"All the better." He grabbed the lantern he'd brought with him on his patrol and stood to leave. "Faithful indeed is the spirit that remembers after such years of change and suffering." And he left.

~

The cold was bitter. Not quite as bitter as he felt himself, given the amount of research he'd put into his deployment, but neither he nor the cold was pleasant. Ten thousand men a day, he'd heard, not that he'd cared. Let Wilson do as he pleased. But it was barely September, and the cold had somehow settled over the land to welcome the men as they came by the thousands. It was his luck that his assignment was what it was, a regiment in France. He had a feeling he'd get along with the French better than his fellow Americans.

Once it was discovered that he could speak the language, he was quickly promoted through the ranks to an 'elite' team of Americans, though by the European standards they were little more than mediocre. The Europeans were seasoned soldiers, and the American troops were full of green boys, barely of age. He was among the youth in that aspect, but in that one alone. Life in Boston's streets had taught him fighting, armed and unarmed. Once the French troops discovered that he spoke their language, one of the boys about his age thought it would be funny to fight him, but he learned rather fast and after that he earned a little respect for himself.

The commotion was enough to get him pulled out of the higher division of infantry he'd already been promoted to, to a new position as a translator for some strategic commander. Instantly he disliked him. He was the image of the all-American soldier, with broad shoulders and a walk like every place he set his foot was his. With his blonde hair and sharp blue eyes, he could've fit in with the Germans and no one would even notice, but for his American personality. To his own dismay, the commander's first instinct was to try to befriend him.

"You don't like to talk much, do you." His invasive nature was one of the most annoying things about him.

"I don't like a great many things."

"Women included?"

"I don't like people in general."

He'd ignored the commander's jibe. He knew what he was getting at. He had to be more astute than he gave him credit for to be able to figure it out. Antonio was the only one whom he'd trusted to tell back home. He'd wondered what had given him away.

"So it's true."

They were alone in the tent that they shared, as they were most nights. Smack dab in the middle of the French encampment, they figured if something were to happen, tracking down a translator would be the last thing on their minds until they couldn't formulate a plan and it was too late. Levi ignored him, turning away on his cot. He wished the nuisance would extinguish the lantern and drop the subject entirely. The canvas was thin, and he certainly didn't want to be overheard, although in English it might not matter anyway.

"I'm the same way, you know."

That actually was a surprise, entirely contrary to his all-American facade. But he really didn't care.

"Good for you. Now turn out the light. I'm tired."

The light went out, but it was followed by sounds of shuffling and then the young commander's voice was suddenly by his ear and he nearly jumped out of his skin.

"I'm--"

"Fucking hell, why are you so close to me?" He nearly knocked over his cot trying to back away.

"Sorry, I just realized that was probably a weird thing to ask so I wanted to apologize."

"Apology accepted. Go the fuck to sleep."

"Can I trust you?" He could feel his eyes piercing the darkness trying to see him.

"No. You can't."

"Yes I can. You're my cadet, and they'd believe all of that about you way before they'd ever believe it about me."

"Comforting. Are you going somewhere with this or do you just feel like berating someone?"

"I'm afraid of everything here. This country, the people, the war, everything. But more than that, I'm afraid of dying."

"Okay." Levi still didn't care.

"You've never been in love, have you?"

"I don't see why that's relevant."

"It changes things. A man in love has something to live for, so he also has something to fear."

"Fear and a reason for being are not correlating events."

There was a moment of silence between them, accented only by the sound of the man settling down in his own cot for the night.

"You ought not be so bitter. In this war, finding even the smallest reasons to live is crucial. When everyone starts dying around you, you'll see. Life is terrifying, but sacred. Facing your mortality is one of the fastest ways to learn to love."

He didn't let it bother him. They were words of old, just rearranged. Yet, he drew one conclusion from it. The man certainly liked to play with worlds in which 'all is fair' as the saying went. If only reality were fair as well, he wouldn't be half-bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> confession: I really only half-ship eruri so expect everything to be pretty tame...plus snarky Levi is hilarious.


	4. He and the Dane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No works referenced because the entire chapter is a reference to Hamlet.
> 
> short chapter. /shrugs. more stuff on my [tumblr](http://themodernchromatic.tumblr.com/)
> 
> ~Cass
> 
> * * *

"Levi."

"Nuisance."

It made for a nice pet name. Undeniably, the commander was a brilliant man--Levi had discerned that in translating battle plans--but he came off entirely too strong, and he had a tendency to press a certain issue. Levi had been content to let the matter rest after it'd surfaced the first time, but Erwin seemed to make it a point to bring it up every night he was convinced Levi was still awake.

"Tell me about your life back home."

"It's horrid."

Erwin knit his eyes together and threw a discarded sock at Levi, who cringed away from the dirty projectile.

"Oh yes, horrid. My father sells shrunken heads in alleyways and I think he's been stabbed once or twice, and there was some speculation as to how he gets the heads in the first place, but that's up in the air. My mother likes to sew dresses for the showgirls and then sets them on fire when they come to try them on, but the dresses are so pretty that they always come back, even just to wear them once, and they don't seem to mind the burns. My sister is on her fifth child now, pretty impressive at fifteen, though the twins shouldn't count I think. As to whether or not she's getting married anytime soon, I couldn't say, but she sure seems happy with her children. Named them all George, even the girls."

Erwin's frown only deepened, then changed to a speculative squint.

"You don't have a sister."

"Oh no, not anymore. Not since we disowned her. Five Georges was simply too many."

Erwin laughed and sat up in his bed.

"My father's name is George." He proceeded to talk about his father and his family life back in America and how proud they were of him there, a commander at twenty-two. He continued to talk as if telling his life's story would earn him Levi's, and Levi continued to rack his brain for the French word for 'earplug' so he could ask for some later. He cursed himself for forgetting.

"She's a nice girl, but I really don't want that kind of life."

Strangely, Levi tuned in just in time to catch that sentence, just in time for it to hit home and make him break character. Erwin picked up on it immediately.

"What's her name?" He pried, watching Levi revert back to his stony expression.

"I'd rather not talk about politics."

"Politics? So it's arranged, or what?"

"Yes." Levi turned over, knowing it wouldn't be enough. He wondered briefly if it wouldn't simply be better to just tell him a bit so he could get some sleep.

"What are you, a monarch?" The tone was joking, but Levi's response came in utter seriousness.

"I'm the heir to a large company. The marriage is to settle family and business disputes. If you really must know, her name is Giovanna."

"But you don't want to marry her."

"Family politics is not a matter of what I want."

"You don't like women."

"Family politics is not a matter of what I like."

Erwin gave an angry grunt and continued to stare at Levi. "And you're just going to let them boss you around?"

"You, the priveledged white American, do not understand the dynamics of functioning anywhere ethnic. We have our own rules, our own culture. Not abiding by that would mean being an utter disgrace to the family. To Italians, status is everything and jumping off the top because of what you want or like is suicide."

"I thought you were French."

" _Je suis_. I am. But I grew up Italian."

Erwin continued to press for information and was met with reluctancy, but somehow he managed to drag out far more information than Levi had originally been willing to give. How he'd never known anyone but Don Carlo to be his father, even if not by blood. How he'd done everything to please his mother. About his little sister, Petra, terrified without her brother. How it'd hurt to lose his Italian mother, and how his own mother had greyed in her absence. How he'd greyed in the absence of Antonio.

"You loved him." Erwin had said decisively as he finished talking about Antonio.

"Antonio? He was my brother. I did love him, but not in that way. He was the only one who knew, though. My secret died with him. Sometimes it felt as if we were one person. That's why I agreed to marry Giovanna in his place, why Don Carlo named me his heir."

"Is that what you want in life? To take over the business?" The questions were so typical of him, the narrow-minded and uncultured American soldier boy.

"I don't have anything that I want. I do as I'm told. I owe my life to them."

Erwin seemed to perk up. "You could just tell them tough toots, and to forget about it. I can show you! When we get back, come live with me for awhile; I'll show you."

"You say that as if you expect me to fall in love with you or something."

"I do."

Levi snorted and then turned away from him for a final time that night. The lantern went out shortly after and he was finally able to head to sleep. _Idiot_ , he thought before passing out.

~

His hands ached. He'd become accustomed to staring at them while they ached. They were the most interesting things in the room. Cell. Long and spindly, full of a strange vigor, yet dry and clammy, and so capable of bringing death. So guilty of doing so. It took him days to figure out exactly what it was they ached for, but the realization come upon noticing that the pain was worst after his dreams. Those dreams, when the feel of his smooth, firm skin resurfaced in his mind. He bloodied his fists on his cell walls when he came to that conclusion. The boy in his bed--no, the one in the snow, bleeding in his arms was long gone.

He turned his copy of _Hamlet_ over in his hands for the nth time. He wanted to cast it away from himself so that it went through the bars and never came back to him. His connection to Hamlet was deep enough to disgust him. Every single struggle--being the only one haunted by ghosts, desiring a revenge he couldn't have, struggling to choose between life and death, killing everyone around him!--chilled him to the bone. The more he stared at it, the more he was Hamlet. They were the same age now. And his Ophelia slept quietly in the dirt as well, gone because of him. But where was his Laertes to end the pain with poisoned sabre?

He hadn't had a visitor in days. Even Erwin hadn't been by to see him since their last informative 'talk'. Perchance they thought him as mad as the Danish prince and thought it better that they only observe him. Only the occasional guard came by with food and to check on him. He ate, but sporadically. Food was as much a traitor to him as his own sanity.

"Rivaille!"

His name, his proper name echoed in his ears. He knew it couldn't have been the one who butchered the pronunciation, but for a split second, his heart fluttered. He grounded himself and turned towards the bars where Hanji stood bouncing and waving, the little blond guard with her.

"Hanji."

"Oh, _cousin!_ " And she launched into some sort of spiel about how much she'd missed him and how difficult it was running the business by herself, but oh--her Italian was getting _molto bene_

and the raviolis were finally listening to her and--

Levi felt the smallest ghost of a smile at the corners of his mouth. Even if he had no angry avenger after his life, he had his Polonius. His mouth was dry and he swallowed hard. He'd barely spoken in the past few weeks, and hadn't uttered a word in days, so he had to force his mouth to remember how to shape his French.

"Why are they allowing you to visit?" He inquired softly, interrupting her.

"I'm not really sure. But they are. I know why they're keeping you here. What better way to get what you want than to allow you to see your informant?" Her eyes shone.

"You have a point. What do you have for me?"

She updated him on the happenings of the outside world, how the Russians had most nearly disappeared and how the bust the police made had only managed to capture on of their powerful leaders, and not anyone close to the one up top. The boss' daughter was last seen getting into a car with two other gentlemen, and hasn't made a stir since. A few of his own allies had tried to stage a coup to take the business from Hanji, but underestimated her strategic abilities and failed.

"Which ones? I'll put the information on them out next," he'd growled.

"Haha, cousin I think you're enjoying being able to arrest people, no?"

"It's all I can do from here."

She gave him the names, but continued to give him a sideways look until he finally questioned her about it.

"What are you staring at, shitty glasses?"

"Rivaille. You look better."

"Better?" He scoffed. He'd gotten thinner. There were no men around to wrestle when they got out of line, no reasons to get angry, and not even anything to clean. He'd barely moved in the weeks he'd been imprisoned.

"Yes. That look you had is fading."

"Look? What are you talking about?"

"After he died, you just had this look...but it's fading."

Levi gave her an annoyed look, but she wasn't able to continue. With his field of vision limited by the walls of the cell, he didn't see Erwin approaching until he was next to Hanji.

"I hope you appreciated the company for awhile, but it's about time I escorted your friend out. I have a few questions for her myself."

Levi narrowed his eyes at Erwin. He hated to admit that Hanji's visit was actually pleasant. He watched silently while Erwin lead her away. The little blonde remained.

"I didn't know you spoke French."

Levi hummed. "And Italian too."

He felt strangely comfortable around the boy, though he supposed it could've been his recent lack of interaction. Still, he felt bold enough to ask the question that had been pressing him day and night.

"When was he supposed to turn twenty?"


	5. March 30th

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It ends. I actually enjoyed writing this.

Five years passed. He got the information he wanted. As far as Erwin's superiors were concerned, they never did. According to him, there was still information regarding the underground bootleg operations that had taken place all those years ago. Even though the Prohibition had ended two years ago, there was always something of suspect going on, and Erwin stalled for so long keeping Levi in place that everyone seemed to have forgotten about him.

There was something between them. Or nothing. They talked of the old days, the days when they were young men with their arms intact, in the war where they were together in that cold tent. Or in Levi's empty house. The conversations never got any warmer than that. Places and events that had passed by, a mere recollection of big picture ideas that never zoomed in on any details. Once, about a year after his incarceration, Erwin had dared to reach inside the bars and pull him close, then kissed him, and Levi had let him. But neither man felt anything for the action and they never spoke of it. It was true that he was Levi's only regular visitor. Hanji only came a few times a year and all of the guards Levi had associated with Eren must've been promoted to something beyond watching a vegetable wither in a cage.

The news came from out of the blue, but no one was really surprised by it. Alcatraz Federal Penetentiary had opened a year prior and had already gained fame for being 'inescapable' and housed the most notorious criminals in the nation. It followed that Levi, Big Levi who ran the Boston Black Cats in their prime and all throughout their underground years would be a desirable crown jewel in something of that repertoire. It was announced that he would be transferred there, and when they gave the date of transfer he barked a quiet, raspy laugh and retreated back to his bed.

Trials and trials, questions and questions, books and books. He read everything Erwin had to offer when it came to books. Some of them he read twice. But for all of it, no one could ever really fix what he'd broken when he decided to bring Eren into his world. No one asked the questions he wanted to ask, the ones he couldn't put into words. So he jumped through their hoops and stared at the same empty hallway with glassy eyes, ate the same cardboard prison food and went through the same daily routine of nothingness.

There were minor activities he was allowed to do on occasion, but for the most part--though it was never announced officially--he was in some sort of solitary confinement, and he grew used to the emptiness. He never did forgive himself. His memories of the war, of watching men die in pools of their own blood and vomit, watching them claw at their skin as they were trapped in gassed trenches--those were fonder than that one Christmas eve.

He talked continuously with Erwin about the day he'd lost his arm. How the sky had looked. What the earth smelled like in those trenches. How sometimes he woke up thinking his prison cot was one in the tent they'd shared. They talked of how Erwin had tried to go back and warn the others when he saw the gas spreading from afar, how he'd dropped his mask outside of the barbed wire and was reaching for it when Levi noticed the gas too. They talked of how the men had screamed when it crept up on them, how badly Erwin's arm had bled when Levi pulled him out of the wire and saved his life. They talked about how the gas infected the cuts and rendered the limb useless and the wounds unable to heal before the doctor decided to amputate. They'd burned limbs in piles in those days. Somehow, Levi never remembered the burn of the gas on his skin as he'd dragged Erwin out. He wished he'd only been as brave that Christmas eve, had been able to act as fast.

Eventually, Erwin drew it out of him. Everything. Why he'd turned himself in. He'd been offended, slightly, because their parting terms were that Levi simply didn't feel he could ever love anyone after the war. Petra, of course had been the exception. Still, in doing so, Erwin gave him food for thought, something he'd never considered. He understood what it meant to risk his life for someone he loved.

He was just luckier.

The day finally arrived on which he was to be transported across the country from Boston to the far off island that housed Alcatraz. He was told there was a freak snow storm and was given a coat that could've matched the shadows under his eyes. He'd shuffled along like a lifeless husk, sat patiently in the back of the truck and waited, wondering if he would see it. He did.

When it had first fallen, it was heavy and thick, entirely unlike what he remembered. Several inches of it already covered the ground and it made him cold in his thin prison jumpsuit. But just before everything fell apart, he looked out the back of the cab and saw it falling, floating gracefully down from the clouds. Something like a smile permeated his cracked and dry lips and then the cabbie spun out of control and disappeared over the edge of a bridge.

When they recovered it, the driver and the guard were both dead and the cabbie was so smashed that they were unable to tell the front from the back for a time. There was no evidence in the back. Not a speck of blood, not a shred of fabric. A passerby swore that a gust of snowy wind had some sort of hand in the cabbie's loss of control. Yet the snow had been so peaceful that no one believed that.

They never did find his body.

Erwin would later read the report and shake his head to think his old friend departed to the land of endless trenches and lost arms, or perhaps simply dark warehouses surrounded by piles of crates. It made the news that the cabbie had crashed with him in it, but nothing further was released. By the time the file got to Erwin, the ink was smudged over portions of it and he could only make out some of the writing.

Levi (smudge)

Male, Age 35

Vehicular Accident

Missing, Presumed Dead

March 30th, 1935.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it was fun while it lasted, but I'm just going to draw it to a close here. Thanks for reading!


End file.
